Inside, the familiar sounds of blades on ice and pucks hitting boards created a symphony I usually found comforting. Tonight, though—with what felt like half the town’s children screaming and playing—my anxiety ratcheted up with every breath Finn drew in the cold air.
"Brad! You actually came!" Theo's voice rang across the lobby. "Finn, my man! Ready to learn some moves?"
I handed Finn his skates, watching his fingers fumble with the laces. His hands were steady—no tremors that might signal breathing trouble—just the clumsy coordination of a seven-year-old. I was about to step in when a warm voice interrupted.
"Need some help with those?"
A woman knelt beside Finn, her auburn hair escaping from under a knit hat that had seen better days. Her eyes were brown with gold flecks, the kind of eyes that suggested she actually listened when people talked. She wore jeans and a fleecejacket—no designer labels or careful styling, just comfortable clothes on a comfortable person.
"Yes, please," Finn said immediately, charming smile in full effect. "Dad always makes them too tight."
"I do not—" I started to protest, then caught the woman's amused glance and felt heat creep up my neck.
"The trick," she told Finn conspiratorially, "is to make them snug but not restrictive. Like a good hug, not a python squeeze."
Finn giggled. "Are you a hockey player too?"
"No, I'm actually a teacher. I just moved to town from San Antonio." She finished tying his laces, then stood and offered me her hand. "Serena Voss. I'm the new Inclusion Specialist at Wrightwood Primary School."
Her handshake was firm, warm despite the cold rink. "Brad Wilder. And you've just made a friend for life—Finn goes to Wrightwood Primary."
"Wait, really? You're going to be at my school?" Finn's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Do you know Mrs. Rachel? She helps kids like me and everyone likes her."
"Kids like you?" Serena tilted her head, genuinely curious rather than carefully sympathetic like most adults when they noticed Finn's medical alert bracelet.
"Kids with asthma and stuff. Dad says I'm special needs, but I don't like that term 'cause I'm not special—I just need different things sometimes." The words tumbled out in typical Finn fashion, no filter between brain and mouth.
"You know what? You're absolutely right," Serena said, and I could tell she meant it. "Everyone needs different things. Some people need glasses to see, some people need medicineto breathe easier, some people need extra time to understand math. It's all just different ways of being human."
Something in my chest loosened slightly. Most people either treated Finn like glass or ignored his condition entirely. This woman had found the middle ground in thirty seconds.
"I've actually been watching the Avalanche games," she admitted, a blush rising in her cheeks as she glanced at me. "Trying to understand hockey culture since so many kids are obsessed with it. You play for them, right?"
"When I'm not injured," I said, absently rotating my still-stiff knee.
“Oh. That must be hard—especially during the season.”
Before I could respond, Finn tugged on my hand. "Dad, can we skate now? Miss Serena, do you want to skate with us?"
"Oh, I'm not very good—"
"That's okay!" Finn was already pulling us both toward the ice, his enthusiasm infectious.
On the ice, I noticed how Serena moved—tentative but determined, arms out for balance but not flailing. She'd clearly skated before but not recently. Finn immediately appointed himself her assistant coach, demonstrating his "perfect" hockey stop that sent ice shavings everywhere.
"Show off," I called to him, but I was smiling. He was breathing well, cheeks pink from cold but not exertion, movements fluid and confident.
"He's wonderful," Serena said, looking at me while steadying herself against the boards. "So confident."
"When he's feeling good, yeah." I stayed close enough to catch her if she fell, telling myself it was just common courtesy. "Bad days are... different."
"I imagine they're scary. For both of you."
The simple acknowledgment hit harder than expected. No platitudes about God's plan or everything happening for a reason. Just recognition that sometimes life was scary.
Finn skated back to us, slightly breathless but not concerningly so. "Miss Serena, watch this!" He attempted a crossover, wobbled, but stayed upright.
"That's amazing! I can barely go straight without falling."
